


Missed You

by Davechicken



Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: With permission, a little missing scene from a reunion long longed-for between two beings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508924
Comments: 41
Kudos: 490
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	Missed You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prince of Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848095) by [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/pseuds/WhiteleyFoster). 



> Just after chapter 34.

Missed him. That was what Crowley said. _Missed_ him.

That might have been the words he used, but Aziraphale understood what the demon - his demon - really was saying. What he’d always been saying. 

The kohl around his eyes smudged with his Nile-salt tears, his pain written over the cartouche of his face. Missed him.

It was regret, and longing, and grief, and all those things Crowley had told him he hadn’t really meant, hadn’t really felt. The lie of his ‘temptation’, which had never felt right, even as Aziraphale had run from him, taking Moses away to safety in the desert. 

Missed him. Like Aziraphale had missed him in return, rolling the little golden band around his finger and remembering how true it had felt that night. Why had he listened? Why had he listened to the lies, and ignored the emotion he knew was there, underneath it all? 

There, in the child he’d saved for him. In the shared wine, and shared joy watching Rameses and Moses grow up together. In the simple acts of meals shared, in the… life, almost. Life.

He’d begged him. Begged him for that promised ‘anything’, and he’d let himself be pushed away. _Why_ almost didn’t really matter. Both of them had been stupid enough to allow it to happen. Both of them had been hurting for all this time. 

But when the hurt had cut too deep, when the crack of a whip had landed again, and the rejection right after, slicing through his heart… the memory had broken, or the cut had sliced through the fog of deceit.

Blazing with Holy terror, he’d felt warm arms hold him, and sensed only love, compassion, empathy. All those things that Heaven was supposed to be, and which… blood… plagues… screaming…

Warm, loving arms. Pulling him away from the pain, wrapping him in comfort, guarding and protecting him. Protecting the one who should be doing it to others.

Words made less sense than feeling did. And he couldn’t deny it any more. He’d been broken and miserable, and Crowley had too, and when he saw the tears draw kohl-lines of grief over Crowley’s cheeks… he knew.

He just.

Knew.

Twenty years of lying to himself, thinking it was all in his head, thinking he couldn’t possibly have been right the first time… but the proof was there, right in front of him. A demon who was very probably risking everything by coming to shelter him, by wrapping him in the shimmering walls of cloth that barely held the world at bay.

Crowley did love him. Just as much as he knew he loved him, too.

He should never have let him lie.

Aziraphale moved like a striking cobra, surging forwards to capture his prey before he could dart away again. He wasn’t going to let Crowley ruin this again, and he wasn’t going to let himself ruin it again. 

Words were less than useful, unless you knew what to say. And right now, he opted for saying them without sounds. Forming the shapes of his emotions right onto the mouth below his own, feeling the pounding heart where their chests touched. 

Feeling the hand that lifted to cradle his face, as if he were something delicate and fragile, and not an angel of the Lord, able to explode into heat and light and burn the very essence of him to dust. 

Legs that parted to let him closer, and Aziraphale followed him down to the bed like they had so long ago, now. When things were simpler, or perhaps they were. 

Crowley’s lips opened, welcoming his tongue. His arms opened, and stole beneath his tunic. Clever fingers dipping into the tissues that had never healed right (why would they? He hadn’t healed right, he’d hurt every day, every single one). They traced the lines of his broken past like they needed to know where he’d been, and like they didn’t care where he’d gone so long as their paths recombined.

He was not going to let them part again. 

The demon wrapped around him like the sands tugging bare feet in, his hair cascading like captive fire on fields of tamed cotton. Nothing tame about him, or the judder in his belly as the angel licked at his sharp teeth. Nothing captive, because Crowley might surrender, but it was only ever out of his own choice. Something he’d envied, something he’d admired.

The angel pushed fabric aside, the beautiful gown he’d dressed in so easy to move. Warm, tight thighs and the taut belly he’d long admired. Firm, ready sex - at odds with the clothing, but somehow perfectly correct - that pulled a cry from his lips and an arch from his spine as he dragged his hand firmly along the shaft.

It. It was so soft. So smooth, and yet so strong. Like the demon himself, power in precision, lithe and lively. He stroked again, and felt the sting of fingernails where his wings would be, if he let them out. Crowley’s ankles met his ass, and slammed up and in, demanding more.

“Alright, dear?” he asked, concerned only slightly, but more needing to know. Needing to hear it. Needing the confirmation spoken out loud, now, when he’d not wanted it before.

Get over here.

So simple.

Here. Come. Be with me. Stay.

Stay, like he’d been asked to.

Leave, like he’d asked in return.

Wherever they were, stay or go, he just knew the right thing - the only right thing - was that they were together.

Together. Not just in body, not just in space, but… truly so. The way his heart ached for, beyond any promise his fingers could make. 

But making it official wouldn’t hurt, either. Making a pact, sealed in the first language, the one before sin entered the Garden. The one that bodies put tongue to, but the love they voiced was from somewhere deeper, deeper down.

Oil. Oil from the table, tugged closer with a miracle he was sure no one would ever see. His fingers rolling over that cock, as Crowley held on and kissed his throat, his shoulder, his cheek, his temple. His snake arched and coiled and rolled beneath him, and hissed in urgent need when Aziraphale allowed his hand to go lower.

They couldn’t conceive, of course. Not like this. But the joining they would do was the same. The same show of love, of commitment. Of wanting to remain together, of wanting to grow together, and act as one. He knew it, as he felt the sting of breath and small noises of surrender. Knew it as he corkscrewed his finger in past tight and clenching muscle, hearing pleasure cut with the pain of waiting and the love that felt both incredible and terrifying in one. 

“I love you,” he whispered, as he thrust his finger in to the knuckle.

“ANGEL!” Crowley cried in return, smearing kohl all over his shoulder as he pushed fingers into old scars. “I’ve always… I…”

“I know.” He pushed a second finger in, because he had. He had known, he’d just let it be a lie. And it hit him, then, that Crowley had _lied_ and that had meant he’d hurt _himself_ and that meant he…

He…

All these demons. And all so ready to hurt him - or Moses - or any of the Israelites. Who hadn’t suffered nearly as much before Aziraphale left and they all moved in.

Demons who would never accept this, who would never understand love. Not the love they had. Not the way things were…

He’d lied to protect him, hadn’t he? Out of love. He’d hurt them both to keep them safe. He stared into those amber eyes and things clicked inside, painfully so, as his fingers felt the tense, the flutter, the tug. 

Crowley. Stupid snake. Sacrificing his own happiness to protect him, not knowing that it hurt him more than anything else ever could have. And that was love. Only love could be so stupid, and so beautiful, and so painful, and so… _good_.

“I know.” He braced himself, held his demon’s hip, and pushed himself home.

Home. The real one. Not some small building. Not some massive palace. Not some tent beneath the stars. Inside - with - here - Crowley. 

It felt so good, but it felt all the greater because he saw his heart reflected in those eyes. Saw his passion and fear and hunger and need meet their equal, their opposite. Saw understanding, and an understanding of something that he had no words for. 

Aziraphale couldn’t move. Not for a moment. Not when he was so close to everything, and when his whole chest was tight like he’d been pushed under the paw of a Sphinx. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, like it was something more than a name, and deeper than a prayer. 

“I know,” he said, again, as he started to move like the wind rustling through the reeds. “Crowley. I’ve always known. I love you. And you’re not going to push me away, ever again.”

“Oh…”

“It’s alright, my dear. It’s alright.”

Crowley was crying again. It was painful, but it was good. It was all that tension in the lines on the angel’s back, the itch in his palm when it didn’t have someone to hold. The words and thoughts that bubbled up because he wanted to share them, and Crowley _wasn’t there_ to listen… all that aching, longing, yearning pain he’d felt all these years… it washed out and the love beneath it surged like the Nile in the floods, the banks breaking and the fields flooding to take the gift of fertility that would see them flourish after drought.

His body swelled, or struggled to contain all the emotion inside, and he snapped his hips harder. It wasn’t about the touching. Or it was, and it wasn’t. It was touching because of feeling, and feeling that made him grab hands and shove them into the bed. His knees protesting the force as his hips snapped harder, and the way Crowley’s whole form rippled to pull him deeper.

He was going to finish. He was going to spill, and write his name inside of his demon, where no one could read but them. His demon had already licked his own into ribs beneath his skin, coiled like a basket woven right around his heart. He was his, and so was he. They. They. One feeling, one feeling so big that two bodies could barely hold it all. Blue eyes, yellow, and a growing storm of light and love that he knew would never hurt them, or never destroy them, though they burned in the explosion.

Aziraphale found his release, and the minute he did, he felt the walls around him shake and tremble. Felt the sudden splash of heat across his belly. Felt the tug, the yield, the melt as you-and-me became ‘us’.

Yes. 

Oh, oh yes.

He shuddered into his lover’s shoulder, and smiled so much his face hurt. 

Long moments passed, and they simply breathed, joined and glowing with satisfied sensation and echoed emotion. 

Crowley loved him just as much as he loved him. 

And when they fixed this - truly, properly - he would never leave his side for anything like this long again. 

Not ever.

Soft fabric. Oiled skin. Broken lines. Unbroken ring. Legs curled around him, and fingers circling his ears, or pushing into his hair. Kisses. Breaths. Smiles. 

This felt pretty much just as good as before. Less urgent, but no less good. 

He was home. And he would never let it be taken from him again.


End file.
